


Visit After the Fact

by ponderinfrustration



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Angst, F/M, LeRoux-verse, Post-Canon, contemplating death, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-09
Updated: 2016-12-09
Packaged: 2018-09-07 11:04:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8798386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: He sends her away, sends her away as he knows he should, but she returns to check on him one last time.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a Tumblr prompt from mostlydaydreaming who requested something set in LeRoux canon where Christine returns to Erik after he lets her go free.

For a long time after they leave he simply sits there. He is too numb to move, too numb to cry, too numb to _think,_ each breath slowed down so that he is barely breathing at all, long pauses growing between each inhalation. The very silence buzzes around him, aware of all that is missing, all that is wrong-but-right at the same time. He sent her away with that boy. He truly _sent her away_. He’ll not see her again in this life, and it is right. Is proper and right and just.

He sighs a shallow, sharp sigh, his chest as tight as if there were iron bands binding him, a yawning chasm in his gut. If he moves he will crumble, fall down and never be able to rise again. He’ll die here, right here, simply keel over and breathe no more with the very effort of moving. Somehow, he cannot find himself upset over that. It might be peaceful to die thus, to slip away with a word to no one.

But no. He cannot. He laid out a plan for her, one necessitating a trip to the Daroga to properly prepare everything. He must breathe on, at least a little while and put all of his affairs in order. There is money that must be returned, a will that needs to be written, a grave that needs to be dug. So many things for him to do, and here he is, sitting and numb.

He never noticed the cold before, not truly. He was always too busy, at one thing or another. And when _she_ was here he always kept a fire going, several of them in fact for to ensure her comfort. The fire is long dead now, nothing but chilled, white ash. The damp of the air bleeds into his skin, traces along his bones, and if he looks at his hands, watches them long enough, he can almost see their tinge of blue deepening.

(He can still feel her forehead, smooth and soft beneath his lips.)

The very thought of moving makes him tired, and he could sleep, now, here. Sleep and never wake again.

His legs ache, thighs stiff and knees throbbing, demanding movement. He would be more comfortable if he got up, if he took to the couch, or the armchair, or even his coffin. He could lie down, and seal the lid on himself, and suffocate quietly, hidden away from the world.

It is almost tempting.

He sighs, and closes his eyes. If he rests here a while, lets the peace of sleep overwhelm him, he will have the strength to move then. Maybe…

* * *

 

Her voice drifts to him, as soft as ever he has known it, gentle as a caress. It traces his cheek, one light brush of fingers but voices do not have fingers, and he is dreaming, surely. She would not be here with him now. She is Away. She is Safe. (She is Gone.)

“Erik.” His mind conjures her voice as sweet as he ever knew it, a note of worry in it to torment him even now. Has he not been tormented enough? Thinking of her with every thought? Dreaming of her? Hearing her voice echoing through shadows and darkness? Why does he need to hear her now? She is better away from him. He could not protect her, could not love her, could not be the man she needs and he _does not need to hear her_.

“Erik.” Her voice is louder now, more insistent, shaking his shoulder, but if he ignores it it will go away, surely. It will fade in time. It must. His mind cannot keep conjuring her forever. It will run itself out sometime.

“Wake up, Erik!” Fine then! Fine! If it _insists_ on shouting at him thus he'll humour it and open his eyes, and when the room before him is empty as he knows it must be he'll pull himself up and pull the brandy from the pantry! He was saving it for a special occasion, but if it takes a dose of hard spirits to keep his mind from conjuring phantoms then that is what he will do!

He snaps his eyes open, and the face of Christine Daaé swims before him, chalky-pale and eyes rimmed in red, hair falling lose and it is _her_ hand shaking his shoulder, _her_ voice commanding him to rise and she is real, solidly real, her lips twisted in a fashion that he has seen altogether too many times.

“Erik.” His name is like a blessing from those lips and he gasps a breath, unaware until this moment just how shallow he’s breathing. “I thought you dead, or nearly.” And the crack in her voice tells him she was even sorry of it.

His lips struggle to form her name. “Chris-tine?”

She nods, and manages a faint smile. “I came back,” she murmurs, “just to check on you. I could not say goodbye like that.” The _goodbye_ makes hardly an impression in his ears, so tangled is he in the words _check on you_ , and a small voice inside of his brain beats the melody _she cares about you she cares she cares she-_ He silences the voice, and swallows.

“I am well,” he breathes, tears prickling his eyes at the fact that she _is really here_ , her little hand so warm upon his shoulder. She-she _worried_ about him. He sent her away with that boy and she came back just to _see_ him, to check- His throat tightens, a small noise escaping him and she smiles slightly, pulls him up to put him sitting.

“I was going to call in on your friend, well I don't know _is_ he your friend, he might not be but still. I was going to call in on the Persian man, just to ask him to visit you, from time to time, to make sure you’re…to make sure you’re all right but then I remembered that I don't know where he lives so I thought I’d come back, just to tell you…”

His heart stalls at her words, very nearly stops. Tell him? What does she want to tell him? What could be so important? What?

“…tell you to be good to yourself. Be careful, Erik, don’t- What I mean is-” She swallows, and casts her eyes down, his own gaze now on her forehead where she permitted him to kiss her what feels like years ago now. Her hand slips from his shoulder, takes his hand and squeezes it and for the first time he realises how very cold he is, her warmth seeping into his fingers, racing along his blood to his heart, the very centre of his life. “What I mean is, Erik, is I know what it’s like to lo– to be alone. How awful it feels, and I don't want you to– I want– I want you to live, Erik.” A tear catches in her eyelashes, rolls down her cheek and if she would permit it he would wipe it away with trembling fingers, but he must not touch her voluntarily, must not hurt her. “Look after yourself, Erik, won't you? Please?” She meets his gaze again, eyes shining with tears and he finds himself nodding, agreeing with her, anything to take the pain away from her.

“Yes,” he breathes. “Eri– I promise.”

She smiles sadly, and squeezes his fingers again. “Good. Good. I– I must go, Erik. Raoul is waiting for me.” She leans in, brushes her lips against his forehead, and with a whispered “goodbye” is up and gone.

He stares after her a long time, until the only Christine is the impression of her in his mind, and then takes a deep breath, a true breath, and for the first time in hours, a day, stands up.

 


End file.
